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In Tokyo, the Search for Solid Ground

By David S. Abraham March 11, 2011 12:38 pmMarch 11, 2011 12:38 pm

Crisis Points gathers personal accounts of moments of turmoil around the world.

TOKYO — I looked at my co-workers and then dove for cover. I thought that’s what one did during an earthquake. But no matter how I contorted my 6’3” frame, my legs jutted out from under my child-sized desk. The shaking lasted a long time. I prayed it would end, hoped it wouldn’t get worse. To calm myself, I thought about my niece and nephew back in Maryland.

When I finally emerged, a colleague told me that the earthquake was centered in northern Japan. Peering at her computer screen, I fixated on a news report’s color coded map of the country. The north was red; Tokyo was orange. (May I never know what red feels like.)

It was only about 3 p.m., but I asked my colleagues if they were leaving. They didn’t know. One asked me if I’d heard the warning on the loudspeaker two minutes before the quake. But as a foreigner who is struggling to learn Japanese, I hadn’t noticed it, or didn’t understand. I began to fear that I was missing the information I needed to make an educated decision on what to do. No one else had a clear plan either. Then the ground shook again.

Another colleague told me that it wasn’t an aftershock, but another quake, closer to Tokyo this time, but still not as bad as the 1923 quake that devastated the region. After the ground settled, I was amazed to find that none of my co-workers were leaving the office. I couldn’t tell if it was dedication to work, fear or confidence that the worst was behind us. I feared it was only indecision; I left.

I walked down 11 flights of stairs, and entered the stream of hundreds of others in the streets. They were all donning white construction hats, that appeared to have been issued to everyone but me.

The sky was a deep, apocalyptic gray: a fearsome mix of rain clouds and smoke from an oil refinery fire across the city.

The streets were teeming. The giant ant nest of Tokyo had been shaken and we were all hopelessly searching for stable ground. I fortunately live a 20-minute walk from work in a new apartment building that my real estate agent had assured me was quite sturdy.

Others weren’t so lucky. Most people who work here live more than an hour away by train. But Tokyo’s trains had stopped running, and the highways were closed. Helicopters roared aimlessly above; police sirens blared and lines of people waited for buses that never appeared to come. Normally empty taxis never had a better day. Although many people were armed with maps, it was not clear where they were going. A lone man with a creaky prosthesis hobbled along. I wanted to help, but didn’t know how.

The sky was a deep, apocalyptic gray: a fearsome mix of rain clouds and smoke from an oil refinery fire across the city. But while I was walking, the sun began to penetrate through, albeit hesitantly, looking more like a moon than a determined winter sun. Within minutes, the sky turned clear, as if a light blue sheet had been pulled over the city. An abnormally strong wind blew, and a precarious sense of normalcy returned. Construction crews were going back to work; restaurants, still serving food.

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At home, I belatedly prepared for the disaster that had already happened. I filled my tub with water. I went back out to the store to add tuna, nuts and ramen noodles to my food stash. The shelves were surprisingly full — more full than I’d seen them before certain snow storms in New York. But I worried the supplies wouldn’t last long.

I kept trying to ask people if they had any news. My attempts in broken Japanese to find out from a vegetable street vendor if any government warnings had been issued were futile. My beginner language lessons hadn’t covered earthquake safety. Instead I bought some carrots.

Back at home, I briefly watched the devastation play out live on television — it was like some gruesome Hollywood movie — while the world occasionally rocked under my feet. The aftershocks weren’t strong enough to knock over bottles, but they were enough to remind me that we were still not in control.

As night fell, traffic stalled. Nothing was moving. It was as if a Billy Joel concert had been let out at every corner of the city. The people on the streets were no longer walking with such purpose; some were now aimlessly wandering, resigned that they might not get home tonight at all. Civility still reigned though: pedestrians waited for traffic lights to turn green before they crossed the road and no car horns blared.

Despite some serious damage in Tokyo, we were far more fortunate than those further north, who suffered a devastating tsunami in addition to the quake. As I reflect on the day’s events, I have an eerie feeling that this was some sort of a trial run. Those of us in Tokyo, I fear, are still waiting for our big one.

David S. Abraham is a Hitachi International Affairs Fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations based in Tokyo.